"I-I think I know this man," the police officer mumbled almost inaudibly as they tried to make the victim's last minutes as comfortable as they could.
During the next hour they assisted numerous other victims. Later, Dean couldn't recall clearly the exact sequence of events during that time, only disjointed individual scenes of horror that coalesced into a continuous montage of blood and mangled bodies. One memory that made him wince long afterward was the sight of a man's body blown completely in half, the jagged bones of his shattered pelvis a brilliant white against the burned flesh of his legs. Tendrils of intestines, the remains of his colon, looking like strings of overcooked pasta, stuck up through the pelvic bones, while his genitals hung down between his legs, burned black by the heat of the blast.
As the medical rescue units began arriving in force, somebody established a triage and Dean helped the policeman, whose name was Gonzales, carry the wounded to the first-aid station established on the bombed-out ground floor of a nearby department store. Gradually order began to appear. Dean and Gonzales paused for a few moments to rest. Dean stared down at his hands, which were caked with dried blood. The policeman lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. He offered Dean a drag.
"What is it?" Dean asked, suspicious at the way the cigarette seemed instantly to calm the policeman.
"Thule," he answered, offering him the cigarette again.
"Sorry," Dean replied. "We're not allowed to take that stuff on duty."
The policeman shrugged. "Me neither, but fuck the regulations," he said in thickly accented English. He took another deep drag. He waved an arm at the destruction around them, and Dean suddenly wished that he could take a drag.
He noticed, then, a figure walking slowly, apparently aimlessly, amid the debris. Occasionally the man would reach down, pick up a bit of twisted metal, study it for a few moments, then toss it away. Gradually he neared where the two were standing, and Dean recognized him then as Chief Long, the burly, disheveled civilian policeman who'd been sent along with the 34th FIST to command and train the Stadtpolizei, the metropolitan—as distinct from the field—police force in Arschland, Chairman Arschmann's Staat. The chief looked up at them and nodded in a friendly manner, as if their meeting were nothing more than a chance encounter on a quiet street.
Long held up a piece of blackened and twisted metal in one hand. "We can find out what kind of bomb this was by analyzing this fragment," he announced. He slipped it into an evidence envelope. "But the question I must ask, gentlemen, is, 'Who did this?' We haven't been here two days. Oh, make no mistake about it, this bomb was meant for us. But this mission was top secret from the start, so whoever planned this had to know about our coming for a long time, and also had to know we were going to be headquartered over there." He nodded toward the ruined facade of the government building. "Well," he sighed, and the right side of his face twitched in the rictus that for him passed as a smile, "you boys get any ideas, give me a call, eh?" He waved casually at the two men and shambled off. His rotund figure was soon obscured by clouds of smoke still drifting away from burning vehicles.
Dean watched the policeman disappear down the street. It must have been the guerrillas who set off the bombs, he thought. It made sense. After all, the Marines were here to deal with them, and the guerrillas just struck first. He'd ask Commander Peters about it. But Long had made a good point. How did they know where the headquarters would be when not even Brigadier Sturgeon knew that until two days ago? Were they that well organized?
Joe Dean continued to stare after Chief Long. For the first time since the bombs went off he felt a clutch of fear in his gut.
Several days after the bombing, when the FIST headquarters had just relocated to its new facility at the port. Brigadier Sturgeon stuck his head into the F-2 office and said, "Rafe, get your gear and come along with me. I've been summoned to the palace of the great nabob."
"I take it you mean Chairman Arschmann has asked for a visit?" Commander Peters asked.
"Yep. Bring these two with you." He winked at Dean and Claypoole. "Claypoole, you drive, and Dean can ride shotgun."
"Aye aye, sir!" the pair shouted and jumped to their feet, grabbing equipment harnesses and weapons. Since the bombing, every Marine on Wanderjahr, even the headquarters staff, went everywhere armed and ready to deliver immediate fire.
"Shake a leg, Marines," the brigadier added. "Ambassador Spears will meet us at Arschmann's villa, and nobody wants to keep him waiting." The joke was lost on the two enlisted men, but Commander Peters grinned. The brigadier had come to like Jayben Spears, the Confederation's ambassador to Wanderjahr. The ambassador had some very strange personal mannerisms, but once the FIST commander got to know him, he discovered Spears to be meticulously honest, straightforward in his speech, and objective to a fault, unlike any other member of the Confederation diplomatic corps Sturgeon had ever met. And of all people, Ambassador Spears was the last who'd ever complain about being kept waiting, especially if there were free food and drink to keep him occupied.
Claypoole threw himself behind the driver's console and punched in his PIN. The onboard computer immediately flashed that it was ready. For security, he told the computer the names and ranks of his passengers and their destination. This information was instantly acknowledged by the headquarters communications section, which would be monitoring their progress and recording their conversations, as would the watch onboard the Denver, in orbit.
A heads-up display appeared on the windshield. Claypoole pressed a button on the steering yoke and vehicle status data were replaced by a map of Brosigville. "Best route. Chairman Arschmann's home," he said. A bright yellow route line appeared on the map. A pulsing green dot showed their location. The display was constantly updated by the string-of-pearls, the geosynchronous satellites placed into orbit by the navy upon their arrival.
They covered the eight kilometers from the port to downtown Brosigville in only a few minutes. A city of about 250,000, and the oldest settlement on the planet, Brosigville was a beautiful place. Settled originally by several waves of Hispanic immigrants, the general appearance of the city's buildings reflected the architecture of Latin America. The suburbs consisted of high-grade roads dotted with spacious residential lots on which sat modest but comfortable villas inhabited by the city's large middle class. The less affluent citizens lived in apartment dwellings on the outskirts of the city. The city center was devoted exclusively to shops, cafes, business establishments, and government facilities. With a mean annual temperature of 55 degrees Fahrenheit, the weather was seldom unpleasant at that latitude. As it was local summer, most people were dressed casually.
The Marines had found the people easygoing, friendly, and openhanded. The locals seemed intensely but politely curious about the Marines, their families, the worlds they'd come from, their experiences in the Corps. To Dean and Claypoole, the young women they saw in the streets and at work in the port area were exotically beautiful, always showing white teeth through friendly smiles, black eyes glittering like diamonds as they tossed long black hair sassily about their shoulders.
Kurt Arschmann's palace, where he lived and from where he ruled Arschland and exercised his authority as Chairman of the Ruling Council, sprawled along a high ridge six kilometers on the far side of Brosigville from the port. They were waved through the main gates by the security guards. Noting the light weapons the men carried and the unimpressive defensive positions they manned, the Marines concluded the guards' function was to alert the main house to the presence of intruders, not to stop them.
As the brigadier's landcar came to a halt at the top of a long, tree-lined circular driveway in front of the main entrance, the mansion's white stucco walls and carefully landscaped verdant lawns were impressive in the bright sunshine. Three other vehicles were parked to one side of the driveway, their operators lounging about beside them, smoking and talking in low voices. The cars were painted bright colors, and some sported brilliant pennants and flags from their bumpers. "Some
spread," Claypoole muttered as Brigadier Sturgeon hopped out and started up the long staircase to the main door.
"You stay here," Commander Peters told the enlisted men. "Go over there, mingle with the drivers, find out what you can about who's here and what's going on. Do some real intelligence gathering for a change."
A wiry, thin-faced little man opened the main doors as the two officers approached the top of the stairs. "Kalat Uxmal, at your service, gentlemen," he said, bowing deeply in greeting. "Please follow me. His Excellency is waiting for you in the Gold Room."
Gold Room? Sturgeon mouthed silently to Peters and shook his head. Four people, three men and a woman, waited for them. Uxmal bowed the Marines through the doors into a sumptuously appointed study decorated in shades of gold and yellow. The sunlight streamed in through windows overlooking an intricately landscaped garden that seemed to extend for a hectare or more behind the house. The windows were open and a sweetly scented breeze flowed in steadily from the sun-warmed flower beds outside.
"Brigadier Sturgeon!" A muscular blond man stood up and moved from behind the desk where he'd been sitting. The woman, a very handsome athletic lady of about seventy-five, with long blond hair, rose from her chair and smiled at the two Marines. The third occupant, a heavyset, dark-skinned man whose black hair was cropped close to his skull, kept his seat and observed the Marines through half closed eyes. Finally, there was Ambassador Jayben Spears, who jumped to his feet as the Marines entered the room, a warm smile on his bearded face and a large glass of wine in one hand. The ambassador was a vigorous one hundred years old, with a slight paunch; his closely cut hair and beard were gray interspersed with strands of dark brown. All his life he had refused the simple procedure that would have cured his farsightedness, and insisted on wearing spectacles that gave him a permanently owlish look, when they weren't sliding down his nose and making him look like an absentminded professor.
Brigadier Sturgeon had met with Kurt Arschmann several times already. "Sir, I think you met Commander Peters, my intelligence officer, at the welcoming ceremony several days ago," Sturgeon said. Arschmann shook hands warmly with Peters.
"Gentlemen, this lovely lady is Lorelei Keutgens," Arschmann said. "As head of Morgenluft Staat, she is a member of the Ruling Council, and, I am happy to say, my very good friend." Arschmann bowed toward the stately woman. Lorelei extended her hand to Brigadier Sturgeon, who took it gently in his own. Her skin was smooth and warm and her grip firm.
"Let me say, gentlemen, how very happy I am to have you here. Brigadier, your men have already landed in Morgenluft and begun their work with the Feldpolizei garrisons there. I am deeply impressed." To Brigadier Sturgeon's surprise, she continued to hold his hand, squeezing it firmly at each word. He wondered if that was a greeting peculiar to the people of Wanderjahr, but saw that when she took Peters's hand, she gave it a warm businesslike shake and let it go. Brigadier Sturgeon, who was not married, could not help feeling a bit flattered at the attention. Then he smiled to himself: This woman knew whom and how to flatter.
"And this other gentleman," Arschmann said, turning to the man lounging in his chair, "is Turbat Nguyen-Multan, also a member of the Ruling Council and one of our most important landowners and producers of thule." Multan made no move to shake hands with the Marines, just nodded casually at them. "Multan is here on other business today," Arschmann went on, "but I asked him to stay for this meeting. You may have noticed that he was unable to attend the welcoming ceremony I arranged for your arrival.
"Ambassador Spears you already know," Arschmann continued.
Spears nodded pleasantly and waved a free hand at the Marines. With the other hand he popped a piece of kiwi into his mouth. "I never pass up free eats," Spears commented to no one in particular.
Brigadier Sturgeon was beginning to understand why Spears had been shunted off to a backwater post. At formal diplomatic functions his conduct must have been scandalous. Another reason the brigadier liked the man.
"Please be seated." Arschmann motioned the two officers to chairs drawn up close to his desk. A servant came in with another tray of refreshments. Sturgeon indicated he did not want any, and Peters, who could have used a cool beverage himself, followed his commander's lead, shaking his head no. The servant padded silently out of the room.
"Brigadier Sturgeon," Arschmann began, "we here on Wanderjahr are direct in our business and official relations, so forgive me if what I am to say seems abrupt. In a word, I wish you to move your headquarters back into the city."
Sturgeon nodded affably. "I understand. Excellency, but the answer is no."
"He is as direct as you are, Kurt!" Lorelei Keutgens laughed. The brigadier noted that she had a delightful laugh. He smiled back at her. Multan only snorted. For him that was as close as he ever came to laughing.
"But, Brigadier, our agreement with the Confederation specified that you would make your headquarters in the capital city, so we could better communicate and plan your activities," Arschmann said. He glanced at Spears, attempting to solicit the diplomat's agreement. Spears merely shrugged, then sipped at his wine.
"Yes, Excellency, but my orders are discretionary," Sturgeon replied. "It is my opinion as commander of this force that the safety of my Marines comes first. Dead Marines are of no value to you or to the Corps. I can better protect my headquarters against terrorist attacks like the one a few days ago, and so we'll have to remain at the port until we have eliminated the people who are responsible."
"That's right," Spears confirmed around a mouthful of fruit.
Arschmann was flustered. "But, sir, surely you understand the, ah, incident of the other day, ah, requires your stabilizing presence in the city, until the, ah, metro and field police forces achieve the state of competency for which—"
"That'll take a while," Lorelei. said dryly. Arschmann affected a brief smile, but the look he gave her would have killed a subordinate.
"Yes, yes, of course, but until then, well, it would make our citizens feel more secure, Brigadier, if your men were living among them instead of sequestered at the port."
"Sir, I am deeply saddened that any of your people were hurt in that bombing. Sincerely. But the bombs were meant for us, not them. Your people are actually safer with us outside town. Besides, my headquarters staff, even with its small security force, could provide no safety for your townfolk."
"Exactly!" Ambassador Spears said.
"Well..." Arschmann could see that the brigadier would not budge, especially since the Confederation stooge. Ambassador Spears, seemed to be firmly behind everything he was saying. "Well, very well. Brigadier. Now, I wish to discuss with you the measures you'll take to retrain our security forces. I have some ideas that—"
Sturgeon held up a hand, silencing Arschmann in mid-sentence. "Excellency, excuse me, but that is not your area of expertise. Certainly I would welcome any advice you might have as time goes on and we get a feel for just what needs to be done. But until then, I am taking over these forces. My officers and noncommissioned officers will assess what is needed to transform your men into a first-class fighting force—and then they will do just that. Chief Long, who is occupied in the city and couldn't come with us today, will do the same for your metropolitan police force. We will brief you on a regular basis. Those are the terms of our agreement, and I will stick to them."
"Quite so, quite so," Ambassador Spears said, nodding his head sagely from where he sat, working on his second glass of wine.
Arschmann pursed his lips and then nodded briefly. "Are you sure you won't have some refreshment?" he asked. He had concluded that the only way to deal with this Marine brigadier was to treat him as an equal.
"A cool drink, sir? If that would be convenient?" Sturgeon asked. Instantly, the servant was back with his tray of refreshments.
Multan cleared his throat and leaned forward. "Brigadier, your men are very tough fighters, are they not?" Sturgeon looked at Multan silently for several seconds, but before he could reply, the olig
arch continued, "You have, how many, one thousand men under your command? Will that be enough? These bandits are more numerous, I think."
Commander Peters thought: This guy knows a lot about us.
Sturgeon took a long sip of his cold drink, a delicious combination of the juices of several fruits native to Wanderjahr. "Sir, my men know their jobs." He looked directly into Multan's eyes. "We don't look for fights, but when one comes our way, we fight to win. Now, madame, gentlemen, I must be leaving. There is much to be done." He rose, bowed slightly to Arschmann, and walked out of the room. Peters hurried to keep up with him.
Behind them in the Gold Room, Kurt Arschmann smiled. Things were proceeding perfectly.
Before they reached the main hallway, Lorelei Keutgens caught up with them and laid a restraining hand on Brigadier Sturgeon's arm. "Brigadier," she said softly but urgently, "will you come to visit me soon? I will send my own suborbital. It is very important."
"Why, yes, madame, if you wish. We have our own air transportation. We'll arrange a visit with my operations officer."
"Thank you. But make it soon. And, Brigadier, watch out for Multan."
"We aren't even going into his Staat," Peters volunteered.
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